Frida woke up in a startle but immediately sighed in relief. It was still dark. She could see the moon cast a yellow glow through the malunggay tree near her window. She remembered she had to fix things for her papa in the morning, some civil registry papers from one of the most inefficient bureaus in Manila.
She stayed in bed. Again, it was not difficult to retrieve the dream. This one involved speaking in an auditorium of people and getting a high out of it. The next sequence, though, involved talking to conference organizers who won't recognize the set-up she wants for the next day. What the fuck does it do for an event if the podium is 100 meters from the audience? She felt suddenly disconnected.
Lately, Frida's dreams are more vivid. The other night she dreamt of a war photographer crying to her in a hug which slowly turned into a caress, the possibilities of which she refused with a compliment. So that's how it feels like, Frida thought in that dream. It's all strange emotional politics.
They say love is power. But she knew it wasn't categorically true because she had loved and was violently pinned across the opposite side of the spectrum while at it. Dispersed forces maintain the status quo. Maybe coupling and not love is power, she thought. Like how you can order crispy pata whenever you want because someone is there to share it. You won't feel much of a useless slob ordering it for yourself. Or how it is easier to process a US Visa when you're joining your wife's company plant visit, her free airfare and accommodation slashing the household holiday expense fifty percent. After all, immigration would know you will return to your country of origin. You built a life there, in a newly-financed flat for two.
Frida winced. The reason she woke up is not the sequence in the auditorium. It was because in the same dream, appeared her former lover and his girlfriend for eight years now. They were in a gym. It escaped Frida why she was in the same place. She was not an observer because in the dream she squealed when just a pace away, the girlfriend was about to drop a 5 lb. dumb bell on Frida's pretzeled legs only to catch it with two bare fingers and then lift it in repetitions. The metallic globule was just inches from Frida's face and her eyes focused as though at wide angle with just the weights and two fingers sharp, the girlfriend and the rest of her arm clouded in a slight blur. Frida's ex, suddenly ripped, was on his chair across laying and lifting heavier weights. They were both laughing, having fun, perhaps even gloating.
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